


Goodnight Saigon

by CitrusVanille



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4344587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitrusVanille/pseuds/CitrusVanille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshot. Songfic. Ten years after the war, the ex-pilots remember their past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodnight Saigon

_We met as soul mates_  
_On Parris Island_  
 _We left as inmates_  
 _From an asylum_  
 _And we were sharp_  
 _As sharp as knives_  
 _And we were so gung ho_  
 _To lay down our lives_

The radio was playing softly. It was late, and the Friday-night crowds had long since died down. A few people still sat at the bar, most of them long since lost in their drinks. Several others sat at scattered tables around the dimly lit room. At one corner booth sat five young men, just as they did every second Friday of every month. They spoke quietly, though every once in a while a loud burst of laughter would issue from the group.

It was this group of men that the bartender spent most of his time watching. They’d been coming to his bar once a month like clockwork for years – nearly ten years, if he’d calculated properly. It was interesting. Over time, he felt he’d come to know them, though he’d only spoken to them rarely. They were very different, both from each other, and from everyone else he saw. They were more mature, and had been even when they’d first started coming, when they couldn’t have been much more than sixteen or seventeen, and they had an aura about them, something he’d never been able to quite put his finger on. They’d changed a lot over time, as well. When they’d first started coming, they’d seemed a little shell-shocked, almost haunted by something, like they’d seen horrors boys their age should never be exposed to. They’d seemed constantly on edge, and wary of everyone near them. Over time, it seemed as though they’d left some of the terrors of their lives behind, whatever those terrors may have been. They’d moved on, loosened up, become more comfortable with each other, and with the general crowds around them. But they still carried a haunted look in their eyes, as if they could never quite escape the past.

The man who always pulled a chair up to the end of the booth had dark hair and eyes, Asian – Chinese, the bartender guessed – and never managed to seem quite as at ease as the other four. He seemed to hold himself apart, almost as though he didn’t wish to intrude: after all, it seemed as though the others had paired off. He was an odd one, almost formal, even when he was telling a joke, which he never seemed to do as often as the others. The bartender assumed he’d had a strict upbringing. From comments he’d overheard, the bartender had gathered that the man was married, a family-arranged sort of thing. From what he’d heard, family and honor seemed very important to the man, as was his job – he was a teacher of some kind. His name, the bartender had gathered, was Chang Wufei, though he still wasn’t sure which was his surname.

In one of the booth’s bench seats sat a tall man with shortish brown hair that hung strangely over his face, covering one eye. The other eye was a brilliant shade of green. He was soft-spoken and generally very calm. He apparently worked with a sister (half, step, or adopted, in was unclear) in a circus (though the bartender had never managed to figure out which one): some kind of daredevil, it seemed – the bartender had witnessed him both throwing and juggling knives. He was completely enamored of the man by his side (it was obvious at the briefest glance) and though one eye was hidden under the man’s bangs, the emerald eye the bartender could see followed his partner’s every move with a softness the bartender found incredibly touching. He was called Trowa, or Tro, Barton.

The blue-eyed blond whose fingers were linked with those of the circus-man was several inches shorter than his paramour. His clothes were always of much finer quality than those worn by his companions, but he wore his Armani suits with the same ease and carelessness as most men his age wore sweats. The bartender had yet to figure out exactly what the blond did, but he obviously made a lot of money doing it; he always insisted on paying the tab. The young man had always seemed younger than the others for some reason, a little more innocent, and a little more haunted: his aquamarine eyes often seemed far away and full of sorrow. Despite that, he seemed the most easy-going of the group, full of generosity and genuine kindness. Though it often looked at though Trowa Barton was watching out for him, over the years the bartender had come to realize that the wealthy young man considered the role of caretaker _his_ duty. His name was Quatre Raberba Winner, as the bartender had discovered from the man’s credit card, but his friends seemed to address him as Cat. The bartender felt that an appropriate name.

On the opposite bench sat another man with short brown hair, though his was much darker and much messier than Trowa Barton’s. He seemed to be at least part Asian, possibly Japanese, but his eyes were a startling shade of dark blue. The bartender was never quite sure what to make of him, he was quite a contradiction. The scruffy-headed man spoke mostly in monosyllables, his voice low and rumbling, but every once in a while he’d manage a proper conversation, and it seemed he had a wry sense of humor, which the others seemed to find quite amusing, and once the bartender had even heard him sing: he had an astoundingly beautiful voice. He seemed very self-contained, he was almost slim, and had never seemed particularly strong, however, a few years previously, a fight had broken out in the bar, and that slender man had single-handedly broken up the entire thing (the bartender later found out that the man worked on a horse ranch, breaking in wild horses). Another time, the seemingly composed young man had discovered a large, rather drunk, ex-soldier behaving a little too familiarly with the man who was quite clearly the blue-eyed Asian’s lover; the scene that had followed had been brief, but had made the message very plain that no one was to touch the horse-trainer’s property… the ex-solider had never returned to the bar (the bartender found out later that he had been in the hospital for several months). Said property currently looked quite comfortable tucked within the possessive circle of his lover’s arm. The owner of said arm was generally known as Heero Yuy, though his lover could usually be heard addressing him as simply ‘Ro’.

Heero Yuy’s lover was the only one of the five who had properly introduced himself to the bartender. His name was Duo Maxwell, and though the bartender had heard the others refer to him as Shinigami, he was unmistakably American, from his brash manner to his abominable accent. His eyes were a peculiar shade of blue that looked almost violet, and he wore his absurdly long chestnut hair in a braid that trailed nearly to his knees. He seemed to be the practical joker of the group, the life of the party, unable to sit still for very long, unless he was curled up with his partner. He chattered constantly, louder than the rest, and barely seemed to stop for breath unless one of his companions reminded him, or told him to shut the hell up. His job had something to do with computers, the bartender knew, and, though he couldn’t be sure, he had the sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t entirely legitimate. Either way, he seemed to be a cheery fellow. And what was more, he seemed to be the only one who could control the Death Glares of his partner (the bartender was grateful for that, since Heero Yuy seemed to view just about anyone who came within a few feet of the long-haired man as a threat that needed to be warned off immediately).

In all, the bartender mused, they were a very interesting group, and their monthly meeting gave him something to look forward to.

_We came in spastic_  
_Like tameless horses_  
 _We left in plastic_  
 _As numbered corpses_  
 _And we learned fast_  
 _To travel light_  
 _Our arms were heavy_  
 _But our bellies were tight_

It took Chang Wufei several long moments to recognize the song currently coming from the speakers around the bar. When he did, he almost regretted it. It was an old song, one Wufei actually liked, but it always made him sad. It brought back memories he was never keen to relive, and he knew it did the same for his friends. And so he didn’t mention it to them, though he knew they would pick up on it on their own. He felt it was best left alone. Besides, if it needed bringing up, Duo would do it.

Ten years, he realized suddenly. Had it really been ten years? He supposed it had, give or take a week. He could remember it all, but it all seemed so long ago, a different lifetime. It was a different lifetime. He was a family man now, a husband, and a father, and he knew parenthood had changed him far more than anything else ever had. He loved being a father, though he often thought that flying a Gundam had been a walk in the park to taking care of two small, wild, children. And his wife was expecting twins. That would be an adventure.

“Whatcha thinkin’, Fei?” Duo’s voice broke into Wufei’s musings.

“Nothing anymore, thanks to you, Maxwell,” Fei replied, but there was no bite to his words, he was too used to the interruptions to his meditations to mind, and he was, after all, out with his friends.

“I’m sure,” the longhaired brunet retorted, sounding upset, but his large eyes were laughing.

“Let him be, Duo,” Quatre protested, and Duo laughed merrily.

_We had no home front_  
_We had no soft soap_  
 _They sent us playboy_  
 _They gave us Bob Hope_  
 _We dug in deep_  
 _And shot on sight_  
 _And prayed to Jesus Christ_  
 _With all our might_

Trowa Barton chuckled along with the American, knowing full well that whatever had been bothering Wufei couldn’t have been too serious, or the Chinese man wouldn’t have brushed it off so lightly. He squeezed his boyfriend’s hand and sipped his drink, content to let it play out. His guess was that the song on the radio had made Wufei remember how long it had been since last they’d piloted their Gundams. He didn’t want to bring it up, though. He was never comfortable with that sort of thing. One of the others would most likely say something. No. Scratch that. After ten years, he knew it wouldn’t be just one of the others. It would be Duo.

“Aw, you’re no fun,” Duo was complaining at that moment.

Heero hushed him.

Ten years. A lot had happened. They’d grown older. Had they grown up? Perhaps. Perhaps not. None of them had ever really had the chance to be children, so could a person who had never had a childhood leave one behind? Trowa didn’t know. It was something to ponder on a rainy day.

_We had no cameras_  
_To shoot the landscape_  
 _We passed the hash pipe_  
 _And played our Doors tapes_  
 _And it was dark_  
 _So dark at night_  
 _And we held on to each other_  
 _Like brother to brother_  
 _We promised our mothers we’d write_

Heero Yuy tightened his grip on his lover’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Duo tended to get antsy when he had to sit in one place for very long. They wouldn’t stay much longer, it was already late, and Quatre had an early conference call the next day, though the rest of them had the weekend off. Heero supposed that was the price to be paid for being one of the wealthiest businessmen on Earth or the Colonies.

“Catherine is well?” Heero asked Trowa then, with the intention of shifting the subject, though he was interested, he hadn’t seen Trowa’s adopted sister in several months.

“Quite well, thanks,” Tro replied, the mirth in his eyes telling Heero that he’d seen straight through the tactic.

Heero didn’t really care, as long as his strategy worked.

“We just had dinner with her the other night,” Quatre, always helpful, volunteered. “She’s coming to stay with us for a bit in a few weeks. You should all come by. We could have a real dinner. Maybe invite Hilde and Relena, and Milliardo and Lucrezia as well.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Wufei nodded. “It’s been a while since we were all together…”

That was when Heero noticed the music. _So that’s what everyone’s been thinking about,_ he realized. _A walk down Memory Lane. Better watch out for potholes, it’s an old road, ten years, at least. Funny how time moves. It used to move so slowly, and now, all of a sudden, it seems like we lost it somewhere. Strange._

He wanted to say something. He felt that the mood the song inspired in them as ex-pilots deserved a few words at least, but he wasn’t good at that sort of thing. That was Duo’s forte.

_And we would all go down together_  
_We said we’d all go down together_  
 _Yes we would all go down together_

_It_ has _been a while,_ Quatre Winner thought to himself. It would be nice to have everyone together again. Maybe it had been long enough that they could speak of old times, though maybe not. Maybe it never would be. The song rolling over the radio waves had been more of an inspiration for the invite than the discussion had been, calling to mind just how long it had been.

“We’ll let you all know when we have the dates,” Trowa was telling the others. “We’ll can’t really figure it out until then.”

They were all so different now. Just regular people, even him. These days they could even walk down the streets without being recognized. In the years following the war, Relena had insisted on publicly honoring them, and it had been impossible to avoid notice, they’d been like celebrities: half the populace worshiped the ground they walked on, the other half feared and loathed the very mention of their names – it had been a strange time.

Quatre believed he had changed the least. Trowa, Heero, and Wufei had all loosened up considerably. The change in Heero was really remarkable, the once coldly violent boy had become a warm and caring man, though it was true he still had a temper and was only too happy to break the nose of anyone who got too close to Duo; Quatre found it sweet, for, though he supposed it was sadistic to feel that way, he understood that Heero’s possessiveness came from an instinctive desire to protect Duo, and Quatre felt it showed how much Heero cared for the braided man. And it never seemed as though Duo really minded, as long as Heero didn’t go overboard. Quatre suspected Duo liked the attention.

Duo. Duo had been easy to get along with from the start, as long as you weren’t staring down the barrel of his gun with your own trained on his head. But Duo had become less cynical, more trusting. He was no longer so frightened that some terrible fate lay in store for anyone he got close to.

Listening to the old song, Quatre couldn’t help but recall how many people they had all lost. Friends and family. It hurt. He couldn’t find the words to express it, though he felt strongly that he ought to try. He wasn’t sure exactly what to say, how to bring it up. Smooth businessman he may have become, but for this, he was at a loss. He hoped Duo would say something soon.

_Remember Charlie_  
_Remember Baker_  
 _They left their childhood_  
 _On every acre_  
 _And who was wrong?_  
 _And who was right?_  
 _It didn’t matter in the thick of the fight_

Duo Maxwell had watched as each of his friends recognized the music. Sorrow had briefly etched each of their faces as the song dredged up old memories, uncovering old scars. He’d watched as each was reminded of the time that had passed, of the differences in themselves and the world around them.

Duo realized silence had fallen around the table. Everyone had fallen under the spell of the haunting melody and simply ceased talking, without even realizing.

It made Duo uncomfortable.

His impulse was to crack a joke, try to lighten the mood, do _something_ to remove the ache he knew he was not alone in feeling. But he held the urge in check, knowing it was something they all had to deal with. He knew none of them would speak of it; they would act as though they hadn’t noticed it. That was how they were. They rarely talked of it even among their tight-knight group. It was simply too hard, and they were all too well raised to bring up something they knew would unsettle them all. But he knew his inclination to bring up anything bothering him or others wasn’t entirely wrong, it was just that there were better ways of going about it than attempting to provide comic relief: some things were too serious for humor.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard Billy Joel,” Duo said at last, unable to bear the silence any longer.

The others looked at him, all half startled, half relieved, and they nodded. They must have known he’d say something, he always did. They could count on it.

Slowly, they began to speak again, looking back on the days and years since they’d met. It was easier once they started, and they sat together, reminiscing in a way, far later than they usually did.

At last, Quatre, looking apologetic, said he had to go, he had to be up early the next day.

_We held the day_  
_In the palm_  
 _Of our hand_  
 _They ruled the night_  
 _And the night_  
 _Seemed to last as long as six weeks_  
 _On Parris Island_  
 _We held the coastline_  
 _They held the highlands_  
 _And they were sharp_  
 _As sharp as knives_  
 _They heard the hum of our motors_  
 _They counted the rotors_  
 _And waited for us to arrive_

The bartender watched as the group rose. The blond Mr. Winner approached the counter to settle the tab as the others gathered their coats.

The five walked together to the door, and bid each other goodnight.

Mr. Winner and Mr. Barton left together, presumably headed for the limo that waited outside for them.

Chang Wufei followed, and moments later, his motorcycle could be heard as it roared past the door.

The bartender heard Heero Yuy murmur that he would bring the car ‘round, then the door was swinging shut and Duo Maxwell was left standing alone, fidgeting with the sleeves of his coat.

Mr. Maxwell drew closer and leaned on the bar.

“I hope you’ve had a good evening, Mr. Maxwell,” the bartender said, when it became clear the American man was waiting for him to speak.

“Please, call me Duo,” was the reply. “We’re here often enough.”

The bartender nodded. He wasn’t a talkative man, and wasn’t used to conversing with customers, he was much better at just listening.

The sound of a car idling just outside the door reached them.

“That’s ‘Ro,” Duo commented unnecessarily, pushing away from the counter.

The bartender nodded again. “Have a good night, and thank you for coming, Mr. Max – ” he stopped, and corrected himself. “Duo.”

The longhaired man grinned, violet eyes glimmering in the low lights of the bar. “You, too, man. It’s been a long haul. Thanks.”

And he was gone.

_I suppose ten years is a ‘long haul,’_ the bartender mused. _I wonder who they are. That old song on the radio earlier seemed to affect them all. Soldiers, maybe? That might explain it. They do look familiar, so maybe not. The war was generally hushed up as much as possible. Never could figure out why. But there was one story, if he could only remember it…_

It was something to mull over during the next month. Maybe next time, he’d just ask them. Maybe.

Probably not.

Whoever they were, he was glad they came to his bar. They were friends, and that was good enough for him.

_And we would all go down together_  
_We said we’d all go down together_  
_Yes we would all go down together_


End file.
